The Last Witness

by John Matthews

  An arctic wind whipped across the flat expanse of grass and overgrown taxiways. Michel felt it cut through him like an icy hatchet, taking his breath away. His eyes watered.

  Michel took one last lingering look at Savard’s body, and slowly closed his eyes. They’d obviously headed due south straight over the Jaques Cartier Bridge rather than downtown. Roman and Jean-Paul Lacaille had played them for mugs at every turn: the finder smashed, the wire left in place and traffic sounds played, the snow ramp. Savard was already practically dead as they’d watched through binoculars him waiting on Roman Lacaille – only they hadn’t known it.

  You’ll be safe. We’ll be watching every moment, guarding your back. Weeks of meetings before Savard was finally confident enough to go ahead. ‘Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you,’ they’d assured. Yet Savard had died like a trussed chicken, his final moments filled with terror.

  Michel was now doubly determined to nail the Lacailles, but now only one witness remained: Georges Donatiens. And Donatiens was practically family, engaged to marry Jean-Paul Lacaille’s only daughter, Simone, the apple of his eye.

  Michel opened his eyes again, taking in the horror of what had happened to Savard in an effort to will himself on; but already he knew it was an almost hopeless quest. They’d have to move mountains to get Georges Donatiens to testify.

  THREE

  This was Georges Donatiens favourite time of day, that hushed, suspended moment just as the first morning rays broke through; especially given who lay beside him and what they’d been doing.

  Simone. He admired her for a moment in the soft first light, the long sweep of her olive-brown back, her wavy black hair slightly in disarray and spilling over one shoulder. He gently traced down her spine with two fingers. The trick, as always, was to touch her so lightly that she wouldn’t awaken. He pulled the sheets lower to give his hand freer range, then continued tracing down, down, until he reached the cleft of her buttocks. He felt a subtle tremor run through her body, her subconscious registering that it liked what he was doing, but hopefully not enough to make her stir. Not yet.

  He held his hand motionless and held his breath too, suddenly conscious of his own heartbeat in the lull, until her tremoring subsided. Then he started tracing slowly back up the ridge of her spine. If he was really careful, sometimes he could spin it out for a few minutes. Tracing delicately, as light as spider’s feet, up and down, each time being more daring, going lower, deeper between the cleft of her buttocks, feeling the heat there and her slightly damp from the night before. Or was that just from now? Revelling in her light trembling, almost seeing the goose bumps raise as the first light hit her body, pausing again breathlessly like a frightened schoolboy each time she looked close to…

  She groaned throatily and moved one leg. He waited a few seconds beyond the groan dying, but with one leg now pushed wide, he felt drawn to go still lower rather than higher. Her heat and moisture pulled him in like a magnet, and he couldn’t resist pushing his luck that extra inch by probing gently with one finger. She groaned again, he froze… and was about to pull his hand away when her leg shifted back again, trapping him, and the groan became a soft purr.

  ‘Uuhhhm… c’est bon.’ She rolled towards him, bringing her left leg up so that it rested on his thigh. She smiled at him and blinked. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Good morning.’ Georges smiled back tightly.

  One of her hands traced deftly down his stomach, and she watched his expression closely as she gripped him and started gently stroking.

  A short hiss of pleasure, his eyes closed for a second before shaking it quickly off and glancing towards the alarm clock. 7.22 a.m. Georges started mentally totting up the time for coffee, shower, dressing and driving the six miles to Cartier-Ville.

  ‘Look, Simone, I don’t have time for this now. I’ve got an eight-thirty breakfast meeting with your father. I won’t make it if we fool around.’

  ‘If you can’t handle the beast, you shouldn’t wake the beast.’ She pouted challengingly, still stroking.

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘Voltaire, maybe Rabelais.’

  ‘Sounds more like Cousteau to me.’

  Another small shrug, then she quickly ducked down and started kissing down his stomach.

  He tensed. ‘No, Simone, no. It’s nice, too nice… but I really don’t have time now.’

  She paid no attention, kept kissing down, and a light shudder ran up from his calves and through his body as he felt her take him into her mouth.

  He surrendered to it for a moment before starting to protest again. ‘Pleasssse, Simone, not now… I just don’t–’

  The ringing phone startled them both. She broke off, looking at it accusingly. Georges squinted at the call-monitor display.

  ‘It’s your father!’ He pulled away from her and lunged for the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Georges… Jean-Paul. Sorry to disturb you. But I forgot to ask when we last spoke – did everything go okay with the revised plans from the architect?’

  ‘Yes, they did, and I’ve got them with me.’ The main reason for their urgent meeting now. Georges had been away five days in Puerto Vallarta to oversee Jean-Paul’s new investments there: twenty-seven hole golf course with integral development of two hotels, a casino, and 214 ‘greenside’ bungalows and villas. The rounding-off of Jean-Paul’s Mexican portfolio, which already included three hotels, a marina development, another casino and four clubs between Cancun and Puerto Vallarta. But delays had threatened on this latest project when one of the hotels hit a survey problem.

  ‘No problems now?’ Jean-Paul confirmed.

  ‘No. Everything’s fine now. I… eerrr.’ Georges bit his lip. Simone had reached out and was stroking him again. He shook his head and frowned heavily at her. She smiled back challengingly and continued stroking, moving her mouth so teasingly close that he could feel her hot breath on him. Her tongue snaked out, and he shook his head wilder, silently mouthing, ‘No!’ He hastily cleared his throat. ‘Err… I made sure I was there this time for the survey. There’s nothing now to stop it being passed.’

  ‘That’s good.’ A second’s silence from Jean-Paul as he absorbed this, or perhaps he was distracted with something else his end. Then: ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, fine… fine.’ Beads of sweat popped on his forehead. He watched in horror Simone’s mouth move closer, lips pouting. ‘Touch of bad throat, that’s all.’ Brief wry smile. He spoke in quick bursts, still fearful of what was coming. ‘Probably the sudden change in temperature.’

  She held him in limbo a second longer, mouth poised – but finally, at just an inch away, she blew a kiss, smiled lasciviously, and pulled back again.

  Simone was enjoying this, he thought. Pretty much a continuation of the rest of their relationship: her fighting for his attention over and above her father. At times she was impossible; but perhaps, at 23, six years his junior, she was still allowed to be. Being born into one of Montreal’s wealthiest families hadn’t helped, especially with a father so keen to indulge her; not only to compensate for her losing her mother Clair when she was only eight, but also no doubt for the many unseen horrors being played out behind the scenes while she was growing-up. Jean-Paul Lacaille had made sure that his only daughter’s childhood was sugar-coated.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Georges said as he watched Simone straddle him, panicking what she might do next while her father was still on the phone. ‘Get everything ready for our meeting.’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ Jean-Paul mumbled distractedly. Then his voice came back sharply, sudden afterthought. ‘Oh, one more thing. Have you seen this morning’s news yet?’

  ‘No, not yet.’ I’ve been too busy in bed with your daughter. He could feel Simone’s heat pressing hard against him. She reached for him, started stroking again. He could tell from her sly smile what she was about to do. He prayed that Jean-Paul signed off quickly.

  ‘There was an item on about Tony Savard.�
�� Jean-Paul sighed heavily. ‘He was killed last night. His body was found in the early hours this morning.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ That killed it instantly. Simone wouldn’t be able to do much with him now, regardless of effort.

  ‘Now I know this falls outside what I originally brought you in to be concerned with. But given the background with Savard, I think it’s something we should discuss.’

  ‘I agree.’ Georges felt numb, cold, and found it hard to free either clear thoughts or speech.

  Simone rolled off and curled to one side, frowning; but it wasn’t a look of spoilt petulance, more of concern. Warmth, compassion, joie-de-vivre, sharp wit: all the traits that over the sixteen months of their relationship had drawn him more in love with her, when he’d finally dug beneath the preconception – guided as much by his own staunch work ethic and views about her cosseted life, than reality – that she was spoilt.

  But, for a moment, he wished that spoilt Simone was back. He could kid himself that life was still just a playful tug of war between her and her father. He could forget what Jean-Paul had just said about Savard, and could ignore Simone’s look of heavy concern, mirroring the panic that must have swept across his own face as he contemplated the chain of nightmare problems that Savard’s death could ignite. He just hoped his first assumption was wrong.

  The fat man took the first photo as the couple came out of the apartment.

  They leaned into each other a few paces from the building, a quick parting kiss, and the girl ran just ahead. He followed their movements with a quick burst on the camera’s motor-drive. They were an attractive young couple, the girl with long, wavy, black hair, the man close to six foot and athletic looking with dark-brown hair cut short in a spiky crew-cut, and dressed well in light grey suit and black Crombie. Though the fat man knew, from old photos he’d spied in the man’s apartment, that when his hair was longer it also waved slightly, and that the suit – from the many he’d flicked through in his wardrobe – was no doubt Armani or Yves St-Laurent. They say that people are attracted to those with similar features, and certainly there were some similarities between the two: large brown eyes, his perhaps slightly heavier-hooded than hers, but both with the same olive skin tones, hinting of a Mediterranean or Latin background.

  She got into a bright turquoise Fiat sports coupe parked just in front, while he went through a side door towards the garage. The fat man took another few snaps as she looked around and pulled out, then a minute later some of the man as the automatic garage doors opened and his grey Lexus edged out.

  Simone Lacaille and Georges Donatiens, Montreal’s golden couple, seen at all the right parties and openings – and a few of the wrong ones – and regularly photographed, his own snapshots aside.

  The apartment building was in the fashionable Westmount district, and its penthouses – of which Donatiens’ was one – had luxurious split-level atrium living rooms affording breathtaking views over the City and the St Lawrence. After thoroughly searching the apartment eight months back, the fat man had stood for a moment admiring the view, breath misting the atrium glass, contemplating ruefully just how far out of reach such an apartment was on his RCMP policeman’s salary.

  The fat man by now knew everything about them, their every last move. She stayed over at Donatiens’ two or three times a week, but always the first night after he’d been away on a business trip. She would head to Lachaine & Roy on Rue St Jaques, one of Montreal’s leading advertising agencies, where she was an accounts manager. Her father didn’t have shares in the company – he was careful not to be overt with his influence over her career, she would rebel – but he did have interests in two of its major accounts. Donatiens, first day back, would head downtown to the Lacaille company office on Côte du Beaver Hall, or to the Lacaille residence in Cartier-Ville.

  The one and only apartment search all those months back had been at the request of Michel Chenouda, his immediate boss and closest RCMP confidante. They’d worked together as partners when Michel had first arrived from Toronto, but within the year the fat man left the RCMP after a bungled vice bust led to an attempted hit on one of his key drugs informants, and went into private investigation. Technically, he was still private when he’d let himself into Donatiens’ apartment; Michel had already smoothed the way for him rejoining the RCMP, and all the papers were rubber-stamped, but the break-in was ten days before he was handed his badge and gun. No doubt Michel would have loved to have the apartment searched again now, but for the risk: Michel wouldn’t involve a badged officer, and there were no other private gumshoes Michel would trust with something like that.

  He’d been a keen amateur photographer in his late teens, and private work had given him the opportunity to hone his skills. The mountain of photos he’d taken of the Lacailles over the past eighteen months, Michel would rigorously scan for tell-tale signs – Simone Lacaille’s engagement ring when it first appeared, new contacts of Roman or Jean-Paul Lacaille not recognized from past file photos – and he’d meanwhile be looking at artistic merit: light, angle, composition.

  Now, with Michel’s wake up call at 6.30 a.m., more photos. ‘They’ve just found Savard’s body. I’m here with forensics. Donatiens is the only one left now – we’ll need to shadow him closer than ever.’ Michel was on his mobile and sounded slightly out of breath.

  The fat man was worried that it was becoming an obsession. The reason for the obsession he understood, but still it worried him. A dozen or so more photos to add to a file of hundreds, and probably now enough box files of paperwork to fill a truck.

  He let out a heavy exhalation as he started up, checked his mirror, and pulled out. Perhaps it was the familiarity of the routine, or perhaps his preoccupation with getting back to the station in time to develop the photos before his meeting with Michel – but he didn’t notice the man parked fifty yards behind, who had pulled up just as he was taking his second stream of photos.

  ‘Chac! Chac! Good stuff. Good stuff!’ Michel hailed as he watched the fat man pin five fresh photos from his morning’s effort on the corkboard.

  The C was soft, so the uninformed often made the mistake that the nickname had an English derivation, from the fact that the man was built like a shack. But it had come from his habit of saying ‘Chacun son goût’. He’d originally been known as ‘Chacun’, then finally just ‘Chac’.

  Eighteen photos already covered the corkboard, providing a quick-glance photo profile of the Lacailles and anyone vital connected with them.

  Michel stood studying the photos from two yards back, then threw a quick eye over the others and back again, as if measuring how they slotted into the whole picture.

  ‘So, still very much in love,’ he said.

  ‘Looks that way.’

  Michel leant in closer, studying finer detail in the photos. What had he been hoping for? Some small sign of cracks in their relationship, so it might be easier to get Donatiens to testify against the Lacailles. After all, she was only in her early twenties, impetuous, strong-willed, and probably wasn’t yet settled emotionally. Before Donatiens she’d had a chain of different boyfriends, seemed to change them every other month.

  Michel shook his head as he studied the look on Simone’s face kissing Donatiens goodbye. Wishful thinking. Their relationship had held solid for sixteen months, and looked stronger now than ever.

  But the photo he was finally drawn to most was of Donatiens just as Simone headed away. Perhaps business hadn’t gone smoothly in Mexico, but Michel doubted that was it: the expression of concern suddenly gripping Donatiens looked too heavy, severe. Donatiens knew about Savard.

  ‘When’s the wedding planned?’ Michel asked.

  ‘Early July – the eighth.’

  Michel nodded thoughtfully, still scanning the photos. He already knew the date off by heart, but a changed date might hint of some cooling off. He was getting desperate.

  They’d all be there, Michel reflected: slim, dapper Jean-Paul, his mid-brown hair greying heavily in s
weeps at each side, but still looking younger than his fifty-one years. His mother Lillian, 74, who now spent more time at the family’s holiday residence in Martinique than in Montreal. Deeply religious, her permanent tan, designer clothes and henna-tinted grey hair at times seemed vain, superficial affectations at odds with her firm-rooted nature, with all revolving around the church and family; but she looked well, and her age showed only with her slightly matronly bulk and resultantly slowed gait. Simone’s younger brother Raphaël, 15, now in 6th Grade at Montreal’s top Catholic school, St Francis, where he shone at art and literature; but to his father’s concern he was poor at math, showed little future promise for business, and spent his every spare moment rollerblading or, in the winter, snow-boarding. They looked like any other new-moneyed Montreal family, probably more upper-middle than top drawer – until you got to the photos of Roman and the Lacaille family’s key enforcer, Frank Massenat, so often in Roman’s shadow. Then the underlying menace of the Lacaille family became evident.

  Roman was four years younger than Jean-Paul and, while only two inches smaller at five-eight, looked shorter still due to his broadness and bulk. While Jean-Paul had been on the tennis court or jogging, Roman had been in the gym pumping iron or pummelling a punch-bag until he was ready to drop. He was known as ‘The Bull’, not just through his build, but because of his habit of keeping his head low and looking up at people, swaying it slightly as he weighed their words; a motion that would become more pronounced if he started to doubt or didn’t like what they were saying. He reminded people of a bull measuring a matador for attack – and there had been many horror stories of Roman striking out swiftly and unpredictably, head first, ending any potential argument or fight by caving in his opponent’s face.

  Head and shoulders above Roman, Frank Massenat was a giant. Seven years ago, when he first joined the Lacailles, he was at the peak of physical condition, but a diet of salami and pastrami rolls, beer and rich cream-sauce meals had steadily mounted on the pounds, so that now he looked like a big lumbering bear with a beer pot. With his eyes heavily-bagged and jowls, he looked almost ten years older than his thirty-four years.